My Glazed Eyes Are Wide Open
by EmmaMary
Summary: Her way of doing this seems to be by ripping the daisies out of the ground furiously, ruining them in her haste. PostDH, PostWar grief fic. RHr. Fluff.


**Disclaimer- I own absolutely nothing.**

**This story is solely for Felicia. There are about six prompts in this story that couldn't stand alone, and her one prompt tied them all together for me. Plus, as I have said before, you are my muse so much of the time. Here is to you and Nikki, and Tracy and Penny.**

**I had a wonderful person help me re-vamp this. While it is still not a piece that would blow anyone away, I took a lot from her words and she has helped my writing and me a great deal. So thank you Jennifer. **

_**Major **__**Deathly Hallows Spoilers**__** ahead! You have been warned. **_

LINE

She never wears shoes.

It is one of the many new things you have noticed about her over the past month or so; one of the things that you haven't noticed before in the past seven years. All theses new things you are learning about her just from looking come due to the fact that now you are allowed to look. No longer must you keep hiding the attraction you feel towards her. When she catches you staring at her all she does is smile genuinely back at you. Sometimes you catch her staring at you as well and you feel your heart flutter in that perfect sort of way, and return the favor of with one of your trademark grins.

Still, you think, if she had been running around barefoot for the last seven years you should have already noticed.

Maybe she has always been the type of girl to choose to go without shoes. You can picture the six year old Hermione frolicking in her back garden before settling down at the base of a large oak tree to read a book far too advanced for her age; her feet bare and dirty sticking out from her twiggy legs. Or maybe it is the new freedom the end of the war has brought, and her way of soaking it up is to feel the grass between her toes or the cool water of the lake splashing against her feet. Not even sharp rocks or pine needles can hurt her now the war has been won.

You sit by the lake alone today. Harry and Ginny have run off to spend the day in the muggle village and Hermione is absorbed in a book. After your morning chores had been completed you found her in your room, on your bed (a thought that still makes your brain spin), reading. Instead of pulling her away from her book you kissed her head lightly and let her be, knowing she would find you when she was done. She always did.

You have just finished the book Harry gave you entitled "The First Steps to Becoming an Auror." Looking for something to occupy your time you wander down the small hill below your home and find a peaceful resting place at a secluded area of the lake shore.

You sit here for many moments thinking random, meaningless thoughts before you see the back door of your home swing open softly. Instead of your mother popping out like you expected, it is non other than Hermione. For a hopeful moment you think she has come to find you, but her eyes never glance around to look for you. Instead she slowly makes her way around the corner of the house, never glancing at the lake.

She keeps her eyes on a section of the forest where you know a small alcove is hidden beneath the dense forest. Wild flowers have always grown at the roots of the many trees surrounding the clearing and a large stump resides in the middle of the grassy turf. It now seems like a lifetime ago that the place was a perfect retreat for six rowdy brothers.

You watch intently as she walks lightly towards the forest. Her feet are of course, bare, and her hair is pulled up messily with a ribbon. How on earth one worn and faded satin maroon ribbon can hold up the entire mass of her heavy curls you do not know. As she comes closer however, you see it isn't doing a very good job. Slowly the ribbon has slid down and it now resting at the nape of her neck, her shorter curls falling out around her face, the ones that have grown quite long descend down her back.

Soon she disappears into the dark trees. You stand up quickly to go in after her.

Your brown trainers crunch against the grass that is now yellowing under vibrant sun, the earth beneath it remaining soft. You feel the ground give ever so slightly with each large step you take before you stop at a bushel of trees. Slowly you bend your tall frame down to make your way through the thicket that leads to the clearing. The moment you have made your way into the alcove you make your presence known.

"Hey," you say to her back as she stands examining the carvings Ginny engraved into the bark when she was six.

She whirls around and almost loses her balance. You see a look of fear and shock flash in her eyes before it turns into one of anger.

"Honestly Ronald," she says a hand pressed over her rapidly beating heart, "you scared me! You're lucky I didn't have my wand out."

You notice the smile flicker over her face as she finishes her words and you smirk broadly at her as well.

She moves to her left and you see her ribbon has fallen slightly lower through her hair. Slowly she bends down to the base of a tree where purple daisies have been sprouting. You watch her momentarily before spotting patch of soft looking grass at the base of a large barkless tree. You walk toward the tree and situate your back against it, becoming comfortably.

Hermione fingers the petals on a daisy gently before looking your way.

"What are you doing?"

"Um," you say with a chuckle, "sitting."

She rolls her eyes at you before straitening up.

"It really is quite enjoyable, you should join me."

"I can't," she states simply.

"Why not? What on earth could possibly be so important you aren't willing to just relax?"

"For your information I am here to pick flowers for your mother. Apparently Bill and Fleur are joining up for supper; they have some big news or something to tell us so your mom is preparing a grand meal for the whole family." You notice that stern look in her eyes that you have grown to love.

"Aw, come on Hermione, that's hours away. Let the little flowers live a little longer."

You see the look in her eyes change to one of defeat in an instant. You revel in how easily it was to convince her as she pads her way over to you. She hops up onto the large stump and jumps off of it carelessly before settling herself down next to you. This is another thing you have noticed since the war, the abundance of energy she seems to have. You no longer wonder how she kept up with so many classes.

As she settles close to you you reach over to take her hand, but she refutes this attempt and instead bends her knees up and wraps both her arms around your arm. You place your hand gently on the inside of her left knee, thrilled with the closeness she has initiated.

You watch the sunlight cast artistic shadows down through the trees as a few lonesome butterflies dance above the wildflowers. You have nothing in particular to talk about, but this does not bother you. It is times like these that lead the way into a whole new branch of conversation. You want to know everything about the girl sitting next to you, hugging your arm, and the only way for that to happen is for times like these. Where there is nothing better to talk about but the significant details in your lives you would never think to tell another soul for fear of boring conversation.

"What's something I don't know about you?" You ask her softly.

She is busy slowly rubbing the edge of her foot in soft stokes on your bare calves. Her feet are rough and calloused and you wonder if she knows how much that turns you on. Every part of her is so soft and silky and you love it when she runs her pliable fingers over your toned arms and up into your vibrant hair, sometimes stopping to tickle the nape of your neck with her fingertips. But you favorite thing is when she runs her gentle hands just under the hem of your flimsy summer shirt, your lips connecting feverishly as her small and coarse feet scratch against your legs. It is such a contrast to the rest of her body that you love so much. It is just so her to be velvet and leather all at the same time.

"Hmmm?" she mumbles when you broke her out of her trance. She stops stroking your leg with her feet and you really wish she hadn't.

"I don't know..." you shrug, almost losing your nerve. "Seven years isn't that long, there has got to be something I don't know about you."

She looks up at you with her amber brown eyes and you relish in the fact that you allowed to be close enough to her to see the soft swirls of gold floating in them.

"You know everything about me," she states.

"No," you say with a chuckle, "that isn't even possible. There is what…" you do the math as quickly as you can in you head, "almost twelve years of stuff I don't know about you."

"But that's all Muggle stuff."

"I don't care."

"Fine," says Hermione, fidgeting around in her seating place before thinking of an answer.

"Okay, here's one. I skipped the fifth grade."

You look down at her quizzically, reminding her that if this is something from the Muggle world she speaks of, she will have to be more elaborate with her answers.

Reading your bright blue eyes she understands your confusion and begins to explain.

"Well, you know how you mother taught you everything before you went off to Hogwarts. Things like math, grammar, how to read and write, and basic magical skills?"

You begin to nod but she just keeps speaking. She explains the Muggles school system and her experiences with it in great depth. You nod your head when she has finally finished letting her know you have a pretty firm grasp on it now.

"Well, you knew everything already from all that reading you obviously did," you compliment her.

Softly you squeeze her knee, where your hand is still resting.

"It was hard a first, a new school with no one I knew, but it was okay in the end. I never really fit in anywhere my entire life. I was close with my cousin Robert and my neighbor Penny. Plus I had my books. I think that was why I was so grateful when I got the letter to Hogwarts. I was so excited that maybe I finally found where I fit in."

You smile at her when her story comes to a close, understanding, for once, how thankful she was.

"And you?" says Hermione.

"And me what?"

"It's your turn. Tell me something about you."

Surprised that she would still want to play this game she seemed so disapproving of, you have to think hard for a moment before coming up with a good answer.

"Okay," you say flashing her a goofy smile. "Here is one that should make you fall in love with me all over again."

"Seriously though," you say as she giggles quietly. "I'll have you know I was the one who taught Ginny how to fly a broom."

She looks up at you sincerely impressed. You cannot help but feel a small bit proud of yourself.

"Really?"

"Well, yeah," you say modestly. "None of my other brother would show her, they were all too afraid of her getting hurt. But she would beg and beg us every time we went out to play Quidditch. She always just wanted to be a seeker, telling us that seekers never got in the way of the other players so she should be aloud to play with us. Finally one day I woke her up early in the morning before anyone else was up and taught her how to fly."

"Ron," says Hermione sweetly. "That was really kind of you."

You grin sheepishly and look down at your lap, your eyes turning red.

"Yeah, well. Fred and George gave me hell for it later. Saying I was a push over. I told them it was because I wanted her to stop annoying us when we were playing. Really I just hated watching her walk away so upset."

You drop your hands to your lap and twiddle your thumbs, almost embarrassed at your revelation. She lifts her head up and kisses you on the cheek before setting her head back on your shoulder.

You are both lost in silence for a while before you hear her take a deep breath and her body shivers.

Slowly, you pull away from her slightly, turning your head to look at down at her. She turns her head in the opposite direction so you can't catch a glimpse of her face and releases your arm.

"Hermione?"

Quickly she jumps to her feet, still refusing to look at you.

"I better pick some flowers and get back to your mom," she mumbles almost inaudibly.

"We've only been here ten minutes Hermione, she'll be fine without her flowers. What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong Ronald."

She bends down to pick a few flowers that you don't know the name of. The only thing you know about them is that they are pink and ugly.

"I just think that since your mother is so graciously letting me stay here I shouldn't put off a favor she has asked of me."

You have seen this happen before. Hermione always hides her sadness and discontent with anger.

"Hermione," you say softly, gripping her arm and cautiously lifting her upward; hoping she does not tug her arm away or go off on you. She does nothing of the sort, but still refuses to look at you.

"Hey," you whisper to her, truly concerned now.

She does not turn her head or make any indication that she has heard you. So you reach out the hand that is not still clasped onto her arm and turn her chin toward you. You are surprised to see that she lets you do this, but not surprised when she casts her eyes down at the ground as you lift her face to yours.

"Ron, please," she pleads.

"You know you're aloud to cry," you say out of the blue, finally causing her to look up at you.

"What?" she asks.

"You haven't cried since the end of the war Hermione. And, you know, I just want you to know I'm, well… here for you." You stutter the last words, unsure and inexperienced in how to convey to her that you really are there for her.

"What are you talking about?" she huffs. "I've cried."

"Well, I guess at the funerals you cried. But even then you really wouldn't let anyone comfort you. Look… Ginny says you, um, don't you cry at night either. You can't be alone in this house Hermione, trust me I know, so if you don't cry around Ginny or me, well, then, you probably aren't. And I just think, you know, you need to know it's okay if you do."

It is now that she pulls her arm away from yours and takes a few steps backward. Her ribbon, you notice, bobs farther down her long hair, almost useless now.

"You talked to Ginny about me? Behind my back?"

When anger flairs in her eyes you know you have said too much.

"Well…" you stutter, trying to pick your words carefully. "I'm just worried about you Hermione. I know you were close with Tonks, and Lupin too and I just…"

Your words fall short at the end. You are unsure as to what you are afraid of in Hermione's lack of grieving, but you know it is justified, somehow. You just cannot express it having never been good with words; that was always Hermione's forte.

She shakes her head and spins around, away from you. Her ribbon has fallen out of her hair and as she stalks back towards the purple daisies and starting ripping them from the ground. You pick up the dark fraying strand and walk slowly over to her.

You can tell she is trying her hardest to hold back tears, trying to change her emotion from sadness to rage.

Her way of doing this seems to be by ripping the daisies out of the ground furiously, ruining them in her haste.

"Hey, hey, hey," you cry, grabbing her wrists to stop her.

She tries to fight you off but is no match to your build. Finally she gives up and sinks to the ground, hugging her knees and hiding her face behind them.

You kneel down beside her, and rest a hand on her arm.

"Hermione why won't you talk to me?"

"I don't need to!"

Her voice is steadier than you would have imagined and for a moment you almost believe her. But this is the girl you have been observing for months now, years really, and you are not fooled that easily.

You decide to try a different approach in getting her to open up to you.

"Well maybe _I_ need to comfort _you_."

She scoffs sharply into her thighs.

"Really, I do."

She does not move or make a sound but you persevere on.

"Hermione, please. Let that scar you have on your cheek be seen, if only by me."

The small piece of knowledge seems to do it and she brings her face out of hiding, a look of shock on her face.

"How do you know about that?" she asks, absentmindedly stroking her right cheek.

"I've seen you cry before," you say awkwardly, not moving out of her gaze no matter how badly her eyes are burning into yours.

"But," begins Hermione, dumbfounded. "It only shows up when I'm really, really, crying. Like… like at…"

"Dumbledore's funeral," you interrupt.

"Yeah," she says softly, nodding. "You noticed? You remembered?"

You nod, reaching your hand up to trace the exact spot where the scar sometimes appears.

She does not speak, just stares at you with a look of utter disbelief on her face.

"Where did you um…" you fumble for your words, unsure of to do next. "Where did it come from?"

"My cat," she says somewhat blankly, "when I was six. Her name was Perdita…"

"Perdita?" you tease.

"Yes," she scowls, you have almost forgotten you are not quiet her favorite person at this moment. "Perdita is the daughter of King Leontes and Queen Hermione in The Winter's Tale, it's by Shakespeare and it is obviously where my name comes from."

Even in the wizarding world Shakespeare is a known historical figure. You are impressed, although not surprised, that at seven years old Hermione could understand Shakespeare.

"Anyway one day there was an awful storm. I guess she was afraid of the thunder. She freaked out and scratched me when I was trying to calm her down."

"Ouch."

"Oh, Ron," she says finally, standing to her feet. "Don't you get it? I can't cry to you!"

She slumps back toward the barkless tree, keeping her back to you.

"Why not?" you ask, keeping your distance.

She doesn't answer, just crosses her arms over her chest.

"Hermione, you saw me after the war. I was a, er, well… a wreck. But, you were there… for me. Why can't I, um, be there for you?"

Without her hair tied back in the ribbon, which is still held in your hands, her hair flings around her violently and she spins to face you.

"That's it!" she cries, tears now streaming down her face. You can already see the faint redness of a streak diagonally across her cheek. "I didn't lose a brother!"

"Oh".

You stay planted where you, unsure of what to do. Cautiously you begin walking over to her, placing a hand on the small of her back. She pulls away from the small embrace, however.

"No, Ron, I can't."

You study your feet, listening to Hermione's small sniffles. In a matter of moments you get up the courage to talk, and take slow, wary steps toward her.

"Hermione, you lost people in the war too. You spent a year of your life living off of fungus and sleeping on an uncomfortable camp bed. You gave up you parents. You fought incredibly hard to destroy Voldemort."

"Hermione," you say bringing yourself right in front of her, gently reaching and pushing all her hair behind her shoulders while she looks down at your feet. "You are allowed to cry to me, it's okay."

She moves away from you and slides her back down the barkless tree.

You try your hardest to hide the frustration that is building up inside of you when she doesn't look to you. You walk to her and kneel beside her.

You try one last phrase to get her to finally openly grieve, hoping with your entire being it works.

"I promise it _is_ okay, Hermione."

She brings her teary eyes up to meet yours and but they fall back down to her lap. A whole new wave of tears flows down her cheeks, her scar is clearly visible now.

You grasp her shoulder and bring her to you chest. When she wraps her arms around your torso you let out a sigh of relief, falling back into a more comfortable position, pulling her next to you. She sobs freely as you hold her protectively, rubbing her back and placing soft kisses into her messy hair.

Hermione pulls away after a long while, glancing at the large soggy spot her tears have left on your shirt before looking up at you.

"I'm sorry I got your shirt all soaked," she says sincerely, no new tears falling from her eyes.

You cannot stop yourself from smiling at her as you shake your head.

"You see the wonderful thing about things that get wet," you say grinning, "is that they dry."

She lets out a soft chuckle and looks back down to the ground.

Softly you lift her chin before tracing her visible scar with your large hands. You see a new set of tears form in her soft eyes and you gently kiss her nose before pulling her back into your embrace.

LINE

**I don't know, I think its okay. What do you think?**


End file.
